


Let This Single Moment

by genarti



Category: The New Mutants (1983 comic), X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Dysfunctional Relationships, Family, Gen, Not Exactly Death, Timelines Crossing, Yuletide 2007
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-25
Updated: 2007-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-14 11:39:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/148862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genarti/pseuds/genarti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illyana remembers, and the Darkchilde makes a choice.  (Set during and before the Inferno arc.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let This Single Moment

**Author's Note:**

> A giant thank you to Mir, Sandry, and Amanda for betaing -- especially Amanda, for all the late-night meta and feedback. Thank you to everyone who put up with my perfectionistic flailing, and to Feather and Mir for getting me into this whole fandom in the first place.
> 
> Warnings for canonical child abuse (non-graphic, but both emotional and physical, of the sort you get when you have a child grow up in a demon dimension) and some level of non-graphic violence.
> 
> Written originally for calliopes_pen for [Yuletide 2007](http://yuletidetreasure.org/archive/40/letthis.html)

  


If my soul must go alone  
Through a cold infinity  
Or even if it vanish, too  
...  
Let this single moment atone  
For the theft of all of me.

 _\--Sara Teasdale_  


  
 _Rahne says: Illyana. Come back._

There's no blaze of brilliant insight or revelation; just a moment of silence inside me, and the soft rightness of puzzle pieces finally fitting together. And I understand.

What I am. What I need to be. For Earth's sake; for everyone's. Because Limbo needs a ruler. If I'm a New Mutant -- if I'm Illyana Nikolovna Rasputina, Piotr's little snowflake and Pryde's roomie and Magneto's student and the Professor's and Stevie's and a mutant human being, if I reject what I am and try to be the good person I want to be -- then I abandon my responsibilities. Then there's room for S'ym and N'astirh to do whatever they want to do to Limbo, and to all of Earth.

And I'm not worth that.

 _Rahne says: You didn't mean to do this. It's not your fault._

What are the desires of a few, before the good of the many? I'll always miss you, big brother. You'd hate what I'm doing now. I was almost glad you were dead, because you'd never know what a demon I've become; I almost wish you still were. But you'll live, you and Kitty and Mama and Papa. I hope you remember your little snowflake, and not the Darkchilde I am. You'd hate what I'm doing, Piotr, but you taught me well.

 _Rahne says: Can't you come back? Just be our Illyana? Our friend?_

Rahne has too much faith in God and goodness to understand me.

(N'astirh said: _It is your birthright, but you fear to use it._

Demons lie -- but the best lie is a well-placed truth.)

"I'll do it," I shout to the chittering demons in my throne room. And it _is_ mine -- this whole dimension is mine, and I am Darkchilde, and I can feel Limbo's power flow through my soul. Magic is effortless again; everything is so easy, now that I've stopped fighting what has to be. The power is dark and cruel and sweet. "My whole existence, my whole life, has led me to this moment."

Rahne runs, sobbing, and the others -- Sam, Roberto, Warlock, Boom-boom and Rictor -- chase after her.

It doesn't matter. They'll come back, or I'll find them.

This realm is mine.

And maybe they understand now: this room is no place for a human being.

  


* * *

  


I'm five years old, squirming while Mama ties my hair back with a ruffled mass of ribbons. In my hands is a giant bouquet I gathered with Mama this morning. She did most of the gathering, and cut all the tough stems, but I helped her pick out the prettiest. I'm trying not to crush the stems as I fidget, but I'm impatient to have my breakfast and go out to play. My big brother Piotr will take these flowers to school today, and give them to the teacher like all the other students. It's the first day of his last year of school. He likes working in the fields better than studying anything but art, but the law is the law. Next year he'll be a painter making signs and posters for the government when they need him to, and working out in the wheat fields with Papa every other day.

In two years, I'll be going to school too. It seems a long way away, even though Piotr and Papa both toss me up in the air and laugh and tell me how big I've grown, and I shriek with laughter until they settle me on their broad shoulders.

Papa is one of the strongest men on the farm, and Piotr is even bigger and stronger. No one else but Mama makes me feel as safe as them. I know Papa and Mama and Piotr can fix anything.

"Be still, little snowflake," Piotr tells me, and I try hard to stop squirming.

Mama clucks in fond exasperation. "She behaves better for you than for me, my son," she says, and knots another ribbon. Piotr just laughs, and kneels down to take the flowers from me.

I can't imagine living anywhere other than our collective farm. I can't imagine wanting to.

  


* * *

  


I am six, watching Piotr and the other X-Men train. Storm is using her lightning bolts, but no one's hurt. It looks like so much fun. I have to stay safely out of the way, Piotr told me, but I don't mind so long as I can watch. They're all shouting and talking, in English so I don't understand most of it, but I can tell they're having fun. I can't wait till I'm older and I can play too. I hope I'm a mutant like my brother.

Someone's calling me, soft and coaxing. He sounds like Papa, almost. It's not Papa's voice, but he says my name with the same warmth.

 _Come unto me, child,_ he calls.

 _Tell no one, Illyana. Just follow my voice. To Paradise._

I should tell Piotr Nikolaievitch, I know. He told me not to wander off. But the man sounds so friendly, and he tells me exactly where to go. I'll be back in just a minute, before they're done.

I follow his voice into a temple full of darkness, and white flashing circles of light. _Step into the disc, Illyana,_ my new friend tells me. _Don't be afraid. Come to me, child._

I obey. He sounds so loving and caring, like Papa or Piotr. I'm not afraid.

Belasco is the one calling to me. His voice is even nicer in person. He looks scary, with glowing eyes and red horns in his forehead. But Kurt looks even stranger, and Kurt's funny and nice. And this place feels good; it looks weird, but it feels like home.

Kitty comes, and I don't know what to say or do. I want to show her my wonderful new friend. And I want her to go away, too; this is my paradise, my destiny, my friend, just for me. They talk in English, and I don't understand. And then Belasco locks Kitty in a giant crystal and starts to hurt her with his magic, and I have to press my lips together hard to keep from screaming.

I won't cry. I'm terrified, but I'll be as brave as my brother. I'll make him proud of me. Why did Katya follow me? Belasco loves me, and he won't hurt me! He's hurting her because I wasn't quiet enough, and I didn't come here alone. I'm not in danger.

But Belasco doesn't yell. He gives me a necklace, and says he loves me, and I believe him. He says he'll teach me arcane arts, and that I will have a glorious destiny.

With every word he says, I forget my fear. I know he loves me, and that everything's going to be all right.

  


* * *

  


I'm seven, though I don't know it yet. Ororo is showing me her garden as she sees it, with our astral forms. It's beautiful, glittering with life and light. It's her sanctuary, her very self. She _made_ this tree with her magic. I don't understand, but I think part of me does.

"Even the greatest of spells pales in comparison to the miracle of life itself," she says.

But even here, there's darkness. There's an ugliness inside me -- corruption, twisted and black. Belasco put it there, she says, and I know she's right.

But Belasco loves me. I know that, too.

The same ugliness is inside Ororo. The more she teaches me, the less I know what to believe.

  


* * *

  


I'm eight years old; Cat is fighting me, her sword against my knife. She never goes easy on me. I've never beaten her.

I'm not allowed to call her Kitty, or Katya, or anything but Cat; she snarled at me every time I forgot, snarled with wild cat-pupiled eyes and sharp teeth and a terrifyingly real fury, and every time I thought that I'd gone too far and she was really going to kill me. It didn't take me long to learn.

But she never did kill me. She never seriously hurts me -- maybe because that _would_ kill me here, with no doctor or healer around, or maybe because she likes me after all. Sometimes she's almost like the Katya I half-remember, only older. Sometimes she tells me I've done well. And she's hard on me because Limbo has no room for kindness, and she wants to make me strong. She wants to make me able to fight Belasco, so that I can escape.

Cat hisses and slashes with sword and claws, and I almost can't duck in time -- when I block her next strike, it jolts my whole body, and I almost fall. She's angry. Cat's always angry, every minute, every day. But today she's not mad at me. I've learned to tell the difference.

I don't always like her, when I'm sore and sobbing and all she does is snap at me to fight her again, better this time. But I love her.

For the rest of my life, complete physical exhaustion will make me remember Cat and these months.

  


* * *

  


I'm nine years old. Cat and I snuck into Belasco's castle, to his altar where the dimensional barriers are weakest.

She killed Nightcrawler. I tried to, too. He was a demon, twisted and corrupted and nothing like my brother's good friend who was kind to me, but I remember the man he was. Before Belasco changed him.

Cat's trying to phase us right out of this world, and back home. I hope and pray and concentrate on my world, on Piotr, on the Kitty I used to know.

But all I can think of is Belasco, and part of me isn't even surprised when we end up sprawled on his throne room floor.

He's laughing, taunting us, and I hate him, and I want to gut him--

And I love him, and I'm so glad to see his face.

  


* * *

  


I'm ten years old. I'm Belasco's apprentice now. My amulet bears two Bloodstones: two fifths of my soul, corrupted to evil, and the second one was my own doing.

"Good," he says, as I complete a scrying spell. In the pool of water, S'ym glowers at a minor demon, and it flees into a teleportation circle.

I can't help but smile with pride. I hate Belasco, and I want his approval more than anything.

  


* * *

  


I'm eleven years old, and I've just driven away one of my last friends.

Once, Cat was mostly human. Once, Cat was my friend. Belasco changed that -- twisted her being again, made her more feline than human, dumb and feral. She's a pet and a demon, and he laughs to see her crouch in the corners and gnaw on the food she catches alive.

(Once, Cat was Kitty Pryde.)

She spoke to me, for the first time in two years. She tried to say my name. And I hurt her with magic and yelled at her to go away, leave me alone. I couldn't bear the shattered ghost of humanity in her cat-slit eyes.

She'll never speak to me again. I killed that last shred of humanity, as sure as Belasco did.

I try to make an acorn of my magic and my _self_ , like Ororo did once. She grew herself a giant tree, and made her garden sanctuary, the purest place in this tainted dimension. I try, because I have to do _something_. I have to prove to myself that I'm not just Belasco's apprentice. I remember Papa and Mama, I remember being Piotr Nikolaievitch's little snowflake, I remember Katya and Cat and Ororo and the glittering beauty of life Storm showed me. I've never worked as hard in my life as I do when I try to make this acorn.

It's beautiful. It's perfect.

And then it implodes.

  


* * *

  


I am twelve. I don't know that; I only know I've lost count of the days I've been huddled under Ororo's dying oak, hiding from the blizzard scouring this corner of Limbo.

Every day, I summon a silver pentagram, and I try again to make the acorn. Belasco thinks he's torturing me, and he thinks I'll crawl back to him to beg forgiveness. But I was Ororo's apprentice too, and he's forgotten that I hate him as much as I love him. He's forgotten that he doesn't own all my soul yet. He's forgotten that not all my strength belongs to him.

Every day, the acorn is rotten to the core. Just like me.

Every failure is agony.

I keep trying.

  


* * *

  


I'm thirteen. Back on Earth: home sweet home.

Kitty phases through the floor, bag of potato chips in one hand and scowl on her face. "Those stupid X-Babies are taking over the kitchen," she informs Lockheed and me impartially. " _And_ the library. How am I supposed to work on my paper for the Professor?"

I want to say: Do you think that's a big deal? You _know_ better, Pryde.

I want to say: Two months ago I was battling Belasco for control of Limbo. I nearly killed him with a sword I formed out of part of my own soul. Today I'm trying to write a history paper about this country of yours I've barely lived in. I speak this language because the Professor dumped it into my brain, and I'm just glad he can't get any deeper to see what I've really lived. My big brother looks at me and sees a six-year-old and a teenaged stranger, and I look at him and see a crumpled corpse. I don't know what world I belong in. I wake up in the night and I can't remember what's real.

I say: "Uh huh. Share the snacks, roomie."

Kitty grumbles and tosses the bag at me. There's a disconcerting moment of deja vu -- Kitty's sullen pout, Cat's fluid motion -- and then I snag the chips out of the air, and it's past. Lockheed flaps over to perch on the back of my chair and hiss in my ear. "This is human food, buster," I tell him. "No homework, no chips."

And somehow, everything's closer to all right.

  


* * *

  


I am fourteen, and I am dead.

The Beyonder killed me -- immolated me, struck me down and burned me to ash. I failed him. He took away the demonic taint on me, made me into the innocent teenaged girl I never got to be, and all he asked in return was that I help him bring about his new world. But he didn't understand: my happiness wasn't worth my friends' deaths. My soul isn't worth theirs. I gave up his gift, and he killed us all for it.

I'm fourteen, and I'm alive. The Beyonder did that, too.

The Beyonder came to learn from humanity, and maybe he came to teach. Or maybe it's just that, no matter how fascinating he finds us, we're less than ants before his power. All we can hope to do is scurry and hide and learn.

I have learned: what's done can be undone, with enough power. Done, and undone, and redone.

I have learned: we will all still bear the scars.

  


* * *

  


I'm fifteen, and Limbo has turned against me.

  


* * *

  


My demons -- my pets, my servants, my enemies, my kindred more than I'll ever admit to anyone else -- ran wild without me. S'ym took power; N'astirh took power over him. They fight and squabble, and with Magus's techno-organic virus infecting them, I couldn't defeat them. Not as Magik.

No matter what my codename is, I was too human. I know what I have to do. And I've done it. Illyana and Magik are gone, and only the Darkchilde is left to rule.

Rahne fled, and the others followed -- Sam, Roberto, Boom-boom and Rictor and Warlock. I'll find them soon.

Except they find me first.

They find me, and they find me again: they slipped back and forth in time, and they have my younger self along.

  


* * *

  


Rahne's eyes are wide and horrified and earnest, and she's holding out this little girl -- this _thing_ in her pink dress -- as if she'll help. As if she can help anything. That brat, still innocent enough to be terrified of this demon facing her, this goat-legged fork-tongued monstrosity screaming hatred at her. She knows enough already to cry silently; she learned that from S'ym's cruel "lessons."

(I don't remember this happening.

I remember this happening.

In Limbo, everything follows my will, and I am in flux.)

I know what I've become, what that pretty little girl turned into. I could give excuses, and I guess they're even true. But they'll never be enough. Because I still killed my friends. It may have been necessary, it may have been mercy, it may have been welcome, but still: they loved me, and I killed them. Cat was my friend, and I broke her neck. Storm was my friend, and I cut her throat. Even Belasco -- I loved him as much as I hated him, and part of me still does. He said he loved me, and maybe he was telling the truth, in his way. Demons don't always lie.

I nearly killed him. The only reason I spared him was because of myself.

Selfless enough to kill the people who loved me best; selfish enough to spare the one who made me evil.

This is what they made me.

This is what that scared, stubborn little girl lived to become.

She's crying now to see me, her small pink face crumpled in terror, and she's right to be. I hate her. She's what I could have been; she'll make me what I am. She knows already that this dark power feels as good as it is horrible, but she doesn't know how intoxicating it can be. How much I can hold. How much I _am_. She'll kill Cat and Storm, make Piotr Nikolaievitch see a demon sorceress when he looks at his little snowflake. She's me.

I love her, and I'll kill her.

But this time, I'll be _glad._

  


* * *

  


I'm five; I'm eleven; I'm fifteen, a New Mutant in armor and the Darkchilde howling hatred from her demon's throne and the darkest demonic child of all, trapped by her own human trust and hiding her horrible scaled face in despair.

(And everything is poised -- everything is waiting -- everything is teetering in balance --)

This is the secret of Limbo: all these times are now.

  


* * *

  


Little Illyana doesn't have to become me, and I don't have to die. And guardianship of Limbo won't pass to Kitty or anyone else.

As long as I never exist.

In Limbo, my will is supreme. And right now, Earth is Limbo. N'astirh thinks he beat me with that, and he did, but not for long.

I made a part of my soul into a sword. Storm made an acorn for her garden; it's the same thing. I couldn't do that on Earth, where the magic is thin and weak, but the portal is wide open, and Earth is as demonic as Limbo. I can do whatever I want. All I have to do is remake that sword with my whole self.

Ever since Belasco first reshaped me, I've been fighting myself. Demon and human, good and evil, hatred and love -- crippled by choice. N'astirh was right, and he was wrong. Because for this moment -- in this act -- I am united.

I am becoming; I am destroying; I am being negated. I am me.

My entire being is a portal.

And I step into the light.


End file.
